Yours and Mine
Pairing: Abraham (Grantchester) x f!reader Warnings: Mild angst. Mentions of infidelity. Smut. Words: ~6k
Summary: She is bored of her life as the vicar's daughter. Abraham feels trapped in an unhappy engagement that is more obligation than choice. Together they learn that life isn't what you allow to happen to you, but rather what you choose to make of it.
Author's note: Based on this request. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.
“How many rounds of ham and cheese have you got there, love?” her father asked, wrapping triangles of egg and cress sandwiches in waxed paper, before he placed them in a wicker basket.
She stopped buttering the slice of bread in front of her, stilling her knife as she paused to count the slices of bread piled off to the side. “Eleven so far, twelve once I’ve finished this one,” she said, before continuing to spread margarine out towards the bread's edges.
“I think that’ll be enough then,” he told her, hefting the second, already full basket for emphasis, “ham and cheese, egg and cress, tuna and sweetcorn. That’ll do nicely.”
She simply nodded. Truthfully, it had been enough several sandwiches ago. There was enough food to serve an army, let alone a traveller’s camp. She wouldn’t mind if there was a genuinely charitable act of kindness behind the gesture, but there wasn’t. It was her father’s attempt to be nosy, thinly disguised as a good deed.
The arrival of the travellers in Grantchester a week ago had been the most exciting thing to happen in the sleepy, little village for ages. Ordinarily, it was the talk of the parish whenever someone took down their net curtains to wash them, so a small community setting down caravans in Mr. Ruskin’s field had set the place abuzz. As the village’s vicar, her father had taken it upon himself to take food up to the camp. On the surface, it was Christian kindness, a warm welcome to Grantchester. She saw her father’s actions for what they really were though; he wanted to size them up, to have information to pass back to his flock when they asked. She found the gesture patronising, it suggested they couldn’t look after themselves. She didn’t want to argue though, her father was not a man to change his mind easily, or be reasoned with, so she simply swallowed down her trepidation and continued layering slices of ham and cheese.
As she suspected, they were met with a frosty reception upon their arrival at the farm. Those that were not in their caravans, stopped what they were doing to stare coldly at her and her father as they approached with their heavy picnic baskets.
There were fires lit, and dogs barked and chased each other playfully. Piles of timber laid in neat stacks, having been chopped for firewood, and laundry hung on makeshift lines between fence posts. They appeared self sufficient, and she cringed, casting her gaze down at the mud that was splattered across her olive green wellington boots as her father’s voice rang out in the eerie silence, punctuated only by the distant clucking of chickens and faint crying of a baby from one of the caravans.
“Hello there,” her father called out loudly, “I’m Father Thomas, the vicar of the local church, and this is my daughter.”
Embarrassment blazed against the surface of her skin, making her feel too warm despite the gentle breeze in the air, as he said her name out loud, laying the blame of this obvious insult at her feet alongside his own.
“We wanted to offer you a warm welcome to Grantchester,” he continued, oblivious to the hostile atmosphere he was creating. “These are for you.”
She dared to glance up as he gestured forward with the picnic basket he was holding, and saw that not one of the people standing before them made a move towards them, or reached out to take it. After a moment that felt like it stretched on for an eternity, a tall, slender man with an axe slung over his shoulder, hinged forward at his hips, spitting heavily upon the ground. Her lips parted in shock, icy cold fingers of fear creeping up her spine as she watched him, an obvious answer to their offering - ‘we don’t want it.’
She set down her own picnic basket on the muddy ground, her aching shoulders grateful to be free of their burden, and looked at her father with wide, imploring eyes. “I think we should go,” she whispered, low enough for only him to hear, “this was a bad idea.”
He set down his own basket, with a slight nod, before grasping her shoulder and marching her away. She walked quickly, her heart pounding with fright as her father kept a firm hold of her, but it paled in comparison to the second hand embarrassment that made her want to curl in on herself. They had offended them, she knew they had, and she had done nothing to stop it.
“Perhaps once they try the sandwiches they’ll warm up to us a bit, we just need to give them time,” her father muttered nervously, more to himself than to her, as he kept his eyes fixed ahead as they walked back through the village.
“They don’t want our sandwiches, Dad,” she sighed exasperatedly, “I’m pretty sure we annoyed them.”
Her father huffed, finally releasing her shoulder as their house came into view, the tendrils of ivy that clung to its red brick front a more than welcome sight. His voice blustered with annoyance as he spoke. “Well, with that ungrateful attitude, they won’t last long around here. Good riddance to them.”
She pursed her lips, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Of course it hadn’t occurred to her father that perhaps the group just wanted to be left alone. However, in a village that thrived on gossip and needing to know the business of absolutely everyone, they had chosen the worst possible place to settle if it was privacy they were after.
“I’ve made a call to Mr. Ruskin,” her father announced, two days later, stepping into the kitchen as she stood at the sink, washing the plates and cups from breakfast. “You’re to go and collect the picnic baskets from our…visitors this afternoon.”
The word ‘visitors’ came out of his mouth as though it were dripping with poison. She knew the word he longed to use in its place, it made her prickle with annoyance, and she squeezed the sponge unnecessarily tight, watching as soap suds expanded out of it, spreading through the murky depths of the warm water in the sink.
“Why did you need to call Mr. Ruskin to let him know that?” she asked, her voice tight as she glanced over her shoulder at him.
“I’m doing home visits this afternoon, so I can’t come with you,” he explained, adjusting the white clerical collar of his black shirt as he gazed absentmindedly out of the back door of the house. “Mr. Ruskin knowing you’ll be there will help keep you safe.”
‘Keep me safe from what?!’ she longed to shout at him, but instead she took her frustration out on a teaspoon, scrubbing the silver of it harder than she needed to as she frowned.
“They don’t mean us any harm,” she finally said, raising her head to look at her father as he continued to stare out into the back garden.
“You are kind, my girl” he told her, turning to look at her with a soft smile, “foolish, but kind.”
He turned and walked from the kitchen, his silent way of letting her know there was no further room for argument. It frustrated her endlessly, the way he would silence her, simply by removing himself from the conversation.
When she arrived at the camp later that afternoon, the picnic baskets were both overturned. She thought for a moment that the travellers may have grudgingly accepted the food, until she crouched down to lift them up. The waxed paper inside had been torn to shreds, what little food scraps remained were teeming with maggots. A sharp sound of repulsed shock escaped her throat before she could stop it and she stumbled back from the sight, falling firmly on her backside to the muddy ground.
“Think the dogs have probably been at ‘em,” a gruff voice came from somewhere above her.
She lifted her gaze, meeting a piercing pair of blue eyes that stared down at her. As she looked over the sharp lines of his face, she recognised him as the man that had spat in response to her father offering the sandwiches. He wasn’t carrying an axe this time. He loomed tall over her, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing the tattoos that littered his forearms, his hands tucked into his pockets.
She quickly looked away, busying herself with righting the wicker hampers. “I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly, her heart pounding hard against her ribs, “it was my dad’s idea.”
He hummed in acknowledgement, and for a moment she thought he would leave her to it, until he spoke again. “Your dad’s idea for you to sit on your arse in the mud too, or you want a hand up?”
Her head snapped back up to meet his icy stare once more, her jaw agape in shock at how he had spoken to her. When her eyes met his again, he had a hand extended out towards her. She hesitated a moment, then reached up. His hand dwarfed hers as he grasped it; his calloused palm was rough, yet warm against her own as he tugged her easily to her feet. She found she only reached his chest as she stood once more, and she hastily stepped back, tugging her hand free of his, to put some space between them.
“Thank…thank you,” she stammered, looking anywhere but him as she attempted fruitlessly to brush her skirt clean.
A lazy smirk spread across his face as he watched her, before nodding down at the picnic baskets. “You gonna be alright carrying those?”
“Well, they’re mostly empty now,” she sighed, stooping to grab one, “so I should be fine.”
He raised an eyebrow, eyeing her curiously. “You sure? Would hate for a spoiled little thing like you to fall over again.”
She straightened, her brow furrowing into a scowl as she stared defiantly up at him, clutching a picnic basket by its wicker handle. “I am not spoiled,” she argued, “but you’re rude!”
He grinned at her, the predatory flash of his teeth stirring something warm and uncomfortable within her, before he stooped to grab the other basket. “I might be,” he said with a shrug, as he stood upright once more, “but at least I can admit to my shortcomings.”
She found herself relaxing as he fell into step beside her, walking away from Mr. Ruskin’s field and back towards the village. He had an easy presence, and she felt vindicated that she had been right to insist to her father that she had nothing to fear.
“Well, at least your dogs enjoyed the sandwiches, even if you didn’t,” she offered with a small smile.
He didn’t return it, glancing quickly over at her before continuing to look in the direction they were walking. “It’s the first time anyone’s ever tried to tell us to sling our hook with sandwiches, I’ve gotta admit.”
“We don’t want you to leave,” she said quickly, turning her head to try and meet his gaze, “that’s not what it was.”
“You might not mind us being here,” he said, “but your old man certainly does. We’re not exactly the sort of people that have the welcome mat rolled out for them when we settle somewhere.”
“It’s not like that,” she insisted, but he cut her off, stopping and turning to face her.
“Isn’t it? What did your dear old dad tell you before you came here today? Did he tell you to be careful, warn you we might be dangerous?”
She opened her mouth, she wanted to deny it, but as she stared at him, she found herself unable to lie. She quickly pressed her lips together, feeling her skin grow warm at the memory of her father’s concern for her safety. If only he could see her now.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, almost triumphantly, as he turned and continued to walk. “I’m Abraham, by the way.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Abraham, I’m–”
“I remember your name, Miss. Thomas, don’t worry,” he said with a wink.
That uncomfortable warmth returned and she quickly looked away, blinking as though the action would clear the sight of his crude gesture from her mind.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re skittish?” he asked her, “sort of like a cat. Miss. Thomas the cat…a tom cat!”
He grinned then, and she laughed. “You’re ridiculous,” she told him with a slight shake of her head, “so what are your plans for while you’re in Grantchester?”
“Got a couple of horses we’ve paid to stable with the farmer whose field we’re staying in,” he told her, “once they’re in racing shape, I expect we’ll sell them and then move on.”
She had always loved animals, and her eyes lit up at the mention of horses. She so seldom ever saw any in the village. “You have horses?!”
His gaze softened at her palpable excitement. “Well, yeah, they’re what pull our caravans. But these ones are special. They’re thoroughbreds, trained ‘em myself. You wanna meet ‘em?”
“Really?! I’d love to!” she smiled widely, stopping and turning to face him as her house came into view.
“This home then?” he asked, holding out the basket he held for her to take.
“Yeah, best not to go all the way to the front door, just in case…”
She trailed off, unable to finish her sentence, feeling ashamed.
“No troubles,” he came to her rescue, seemingly unbothered by the snub, “swing by tomorrow, and I’ll introduce you to the horses, if you want?”
“That’d be nice,” she said quietly, her eyes filled with silent apology as they met his.
“Tomorrow then,” he said with a slight nod “see you later, Tom Cat.”
Her heart fluttered in her chest at the nickname, and she watched him walk away until he was out of sight. Her father had been wrong – it wasn’t Abraham she found scary, just the way he made her feel.
“This is Fergus,” Abraham told her, his voice almost reverent as he ran his palm over the forehead of a large chestnut and white horse, before turning to stroke the crest of an equally impressive grey thoroughbred with a black mane, “and this is Paddy.”
She smiled softly, her wellington boots crunching against the gravel as she moved closer to the open stable door, and reached out a hand to run her palm over the soft, white muzzle of Fergus. It felt like peach skin, surprisingly soft to touch, making her giggle. “Hello, handsome,” she greeted the creature that loomed before her.
Abraham smirked that lazy smirk of his as watched her, his arm stretched over the bottom half of the stable door to rub absentmindedly at Paddy’s withers. “Careful, you’ll make me jealous.”
“Do these ones pull your caravans?” she asked, glancing over at him, an attempt to change the subject and draw the attention away from how his words made her stomach flutter.
Abraham shook his head. “These ones are just for racing, trained ‘em myself. We’ve got vanners that pull the caravans. They’re in the field with us, they don’t like to be stabled, they enjoy their freedom.”
“Bit like you then,” she quipped, turning back to Fergus who had begun to snuffle at her hands as they rested upon the stable door.
Abraham grinned, plucking sugar cubes from his trouser pocket and passing one to her. “Just like me, Tom Cat. You’re good with horses, y’know?”
“I’ve always loved animals,” she admitted softly, watching in fascination as Fergus took the sugar cube from her outstretched palm, devouring it in several loud crunches. “I used to take in injured birds from the garden and nurse them back to health when I was younger. I wanted to be a vet.”
“Don’t you want to be anymore?” he asked, glancing over at her as Paddy took a treat from his hand.
“I do,” she admitted sadly, pushing away from the stable door to lean against the brick wall beside it, “but my dad won’t allow it. Since my mum passed away, I’m all he has, he needs me around to look after the house while he runs the parish council.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” Abraham said, frowning slightly, as he stepped towards her, brushing his hands off on his trouser legs.
It wasn’t fair. None of it was. She felt trapped in Grantchester, as caged as the birds she once tended to, before setting them free again. Her mother’s illness five years ago had been so sudden, her passing even more so. Since then, her father had clung tighter to her than ever, refusing to let her out of his sight for fear he’d lose her too. She understood, but it was a stifling existence, her dreams snuffed out alongside her freedom.
She gave a slight shrug, eager to be rid of the melancholy that had settled over her like a shroud. “It’s just how it is. But what about you? What are your big plans once you sell these horses?”
He sniffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I’m getting married,” he said. There was no joy or excitement in his voice as he said it though, it was a fact he relayed to her as though she had just asked him what the time was.
“Oh...well, that’s nice,” she smiled tightly, hating the way her heart sank at his admission “So, what’s her name?”
“Luella,” he replied, and again the response was flat, lacking in any enthusiasm. “Need to brush the horses down, you fancy lending a hand?”
Her brow furrowed at his sudden change of subject and she wondered why he was so cagey about sharing any details of his engagement. She decided against pressing the issue, not wanting to make an already uncomfortable situation worse, and accepted the brush that he held out to her.
She relaxed as she worked, enjoying the presence of the horses, but also the easy companionship and conversation that Abraham offered. He made her laugh in a way that meant that by the time the afternoon was over, her cheeks ached from the tug of smiling.
By the time she arrived home, her cigarette trousers were dusty with hay and horse hair. She left her wellington boots in the porch as she pried them off, not wanting to traipse mud and straw across the living room carpet.
Her father was settled into the high back armchair by the fireplace – the place he always sat when he was home, that had been his designated seat in the house her entire life. He looked up from the book he had been reading as she entered, giving her an appraising look from over the rims of his reading glasses as his brows raised slightly.
“And where have you been that’s brought you home in such a mucky state?” he asked.
“I was up at Mr. Ruskin’s, helping out with the horses,” she said, subtly backing away towards the stairs. It was a vague amswer, but honest enough that she hoped it wouldn’t prompt any further questions that he would be upset by the answer to. She was wrong.
Her father frowned slightly, tucking his bookmark between the pages he’d been reading, before he closed his book and placed it upon his lap. “Mr. Ruskin has no horses,” he prodded, sitting straighter in his chair.
“No, they’re Abraham’s,” she said quietly, placing a hand upon the bannister, as if the very action of touching the beginning of her escape upstairs could save her.
“There’s no one in the village by that name,” he studied her closely as he said it, making her squirm with discomfort.
Finally, she snapped, huffing exasperatedly as she threw her hands up in defeat. “He’s one of the travellers, but you knew that didn’t you? You just wanted to make me feel like I’ve done something wrong!”
Her father sighed, setting his book upon the arm of the chair, before he rose and came to stand before her. His features were soft, but there was something steely in his gaze, the look that meant whatever was about to leave his mouth was final. “Your naivety puts you in danger,” he explained, “I don’t wish to scold, I only mean to keep you out of harm’s way.”
“They weren’t dangerous to you when you were forcing your charity on them,” she argued, before shrinking back as the steel in her father’s eyes became fiery fury.
“A kindness they met with hostility,” he said, his voice raising slightly in anger. “They are not like us, do you understand? You’re to keep away from this Abraham, I won’t tell you again!”
“He’s my friend,” she protested, her voice weak even to her own ears. A sense of helpless desperation clawed at her insides, making her feel hopeless.
Her father turned his back to her, moving back towards his chair – his retreat from the argument letting her know that it was over. Nothing she said would matter. “Get a bath,” he said softly, sitting back down again, “you stink like a farmyard.”
It had been three days since she had seen Abraham, three days since her father had told her to keep away from him. She hated how she had been cowed into submission by him. Her compliance to his demands wasn’t through blind obedience, however, more out of fear for what her disobedience would mean for the travellers currently settled in the farmer’s field. Her father held power in the village, he led the parish council, one word from him and Mr. Ruskin would have no choice but to move them on. Keeping away meant keeping them safe, keeping Abraham here.
Her father had been called away to central Cambridge for the day for a meeting with the bishop, leaving her alone in the house, and she had chosen to spend her morning in the front garden. The sunshine beamed gently down upon her hair, warming her from head to toe as she knelt by the flowerbed, her gardening gloves caked in soil as she gently uprooted weeds, careful not to disturb the colourful pansies that decorated the edging of the lawn. The lurid pinks, purples and yellows were a stark contrast to the bright white of the picket fence that enclosed the garden – a very pretty looking prison, as much to her as it was the flowers.
“You avoiding me, Tom Cat?”
Her head snapped up at the sound of Abraham’s voice, her heart pounding as her eyes widened at the sight of him, taking in the way he smirked down at her as he leaned casually against the fence. “You can’t be here,” she hissed.
“Why not?” he asked, eyes narrowing as he stood up straight, almost looking down his nose at her. “Pal says he saw your old man headed up the station road this morning, so I know he’s not home.”
She moved to stand, not enjoying how the imbalance in their positions made him talk down to her, and tugged off her gardening gloves, dropping them into the flower bed. “If anyone sees you…” she sighed, tugging a hand through her hair, hating the way the words felt in her mouth as she said them. “Look, my dad’s told me to keep away, so I am. I’m not doing it because I don’t want to be friends, I’m doing it because I am your friend. He’ll have you run out of the village if I keep seeing you.”
“Alright, so we stop seeing each other then,” he shrugged, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes that set her belly aflutter with nerves.
“What does that mean, exactly?” she asked, folding her arms around her middle as her eyes tightened in suspicion.
He grinned, his fingers absentmindedly tracing over the tattoo of a pin-up girl that adorned his forearm. “Maybe you’re doing something else you’d normally be doing when you’re…not seeing me.”
She rolled her eyes in exasperation as realisation dawned upon her. “So, you want me to lie?”
“Lie is such an ugly word, Tom Cat,” he scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned forward slightly, grasping the pickets of the fence, meeting her eye line. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”
“I dunno,” she mused, pursing her lips, as she poked absentmindedly at the flowerbed soil with the toe of her shoe. “I enjoy going to the library.”
Abraham hummed in acknowledgement, nodding as he appeared to think for a moment. “Alright, so let’s say you go to the library, you check out a book, you happen to bump into me on your way out. You’ve not lied about where you’ve been, have you? We can spend some time together in secret, and if your old man happens to ask anyone if you were, in fact, at the library then the answer’s a yes, and you’ll have a book to prove it.”
She huffed a laugh, unable to stop the way her mouth spread into a grin as she bowed her head slightly, before lifting her eyes back to his. “You’re a bad influence.”
“And yet I’m not hearing you say no to the idea, Tom Cat,” he grinned back.
And she didn’t say no. Over the two weeks that followed, her and Abraham met up in secret twice a week. She would go to the library, check out a new book – and return the one from her previous visit – always something she had read before, just in case her visits prompted any questions, she could tell her father what the book was about. Then Abraham would meet her around the side of the library building and they’d slip away into the woods together. They had found a clearing, away from prying eyes, with an old tyre swing that they took it in turns to mess around on, while they chatted, joked and passed away idle, sunny afternoons together.
“What book is it today then?” Abraham asked.
He was gently moving the tyre so it spun in slow circles as she sat in it, her latest borrow from the library clutched in her hands. She watched as the woods panned slowly around her, a glacially paced kaleidoscope of browns and greens. An involuntary smile playing upon her lips every time he spun slowly back into view.
“Anne of Green Gables,” she told him, “it’s one of my favourites.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s it about then?” he asked, placing a hand atop the tyre to halt its movements as she swung to face him once more.
The intensity with which he looked at her was almost too much, and she found herself dropping her gaze back to the floral design of the book cover as she answered. “It’s about an orphaned girl who’s sent to live with a family, and she struggles to fit in,” she explained, running her fingers over the edges of the pages. “She keeps getting into trouble, and there’s this one boy, Gilbert, who she hates to begin with, but they fall in love. They get married in one of the sequels.”
“And is that why you like it?” he asked, dipping his head to catch her eye, making her feel too warm beneath his gaze. “Because of the romance?”
“I guess so,” she admitted, with a slight shrug, suddenly feeling shy, “it’s not something I know much about.”
“No?” he asked, drawing back and cocking his head. “Never had a special someone, Tom Cat?”
She laughed then, finding the very idea ridiculous as she shook her head. “I’ve never even been kissed.”
He stepped closer then, one hand still holding the tyre steady, while the other grasped her chin gently, tilting her face up to look at him. Suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore, and her lips parted as she sucked in a sharp breath, the tips of their noses brushing as that piercing stare of his dipped down to her mouth and back up again.
He pressed at her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, tugging gently, and it made her insides boil, simultaneously wanting to pull away, to flee from him, while also longing to lean forward, to melt into him and stay there forever.
“Tom Cat…” he breathed his pet name for her, little more than a whisper, and that was all it took for her defences to crumble, for her to lean the rest of the way in and press her lips to his. It was clumsy on her part, she didn’t know quite what to do with her lips, but he gladly dominated, his mouth moving against her own in a way that had heat licking between her legs as it pooled in her lower belly.
His hand dipping down, moving to grasp the bare flesh of her thigh beneath her skirt was what broke the spell, fear and guilt washing over her like a bucket of ice water. She pushed him away, causing him to stagger backwards, as she leapt down from the tyre, her eyes wild and heart pounding, as she sought to put some distance between them.
“No!” she shouted, trying to sound angry instead of upset as she planted her feet shoulder width apart, gripping her book so hard that her knuckles blanched with the force of it. “No! You don’t get to do that to me. I won’t…I won’t be a part of your adultery, you’re engaged! How dare you?!”
Abraham blinked, brow furrowing in confusion, steadying himself as he stepped towards her. “You said you’d never been kissed before, I was just–”
“Oh, and you just thought you had the right to be my first?” she seethed, too angry to allow him to finish what he was saying. “I’m just the poor little village girl, trapped in her boring life, who you come along to have some fun with before you go off to be free again, and live happily ever after? Is that it?! Am I a joke to you?”
By the time she finished speaking, her eyes burned with unshed tears and her chest heaved with the force of the emotions that boiled inside of her. She had never been so angry, so indignant in all her life.
“I don’t want Luella!” Abraham shouted back, the words exploding out of him the moment she had said her piece. It made her jump, startling her out of her own upset as she watched his face contort into an angry scowl, his nostrils flaring as he continued. “I never asked for her, and she doesn’t want me either. She’s been knocking off that farmer ever since we arrived here. It’s an arranged marriage, neither of us want it. So I’m not making an adulterer of you…I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do that to you…”
“Oh,” was all she managed to breathe out, so quiet it was barely audible over the chittering of the birds within the woods. The outrage she had felt had dissipated so quickly, she didn’t know what to do with herself, she felt silly, overwhelmed by the need to apologise, but she held her tongue. Sorry wouldn’t undo any of this.
He exhaled heavily, dragging a hand through his coiffed hair, flattening it slightly. “I might spend my life on the road, but I’m not any freer than you are,” he said, his voice quieter than before, almost sad. “Meeting you…it’s made me the happiest I’ve been in ages, and if me kissing you has buggered that up, then I’m sorry.”
Her heart twinged at his words, her expression softening as she stared at him with sympathy. “You haven’t ruined anything. It was perfect,” she admitted, “I wish…I wish there was a way for me to make this better for you…easier for us.”
“Run away with me, Tom Cat,” he said earnestly, taking another step towards her, twigs snapping beneath his feet as he narrowed the distance between them. “Just you and me, let’s do it.”
The sincerity in his wide, blue eyes was almost too much for her to take, it was a crazy idea, and she couldn’t help the bark of laughter that forced its way from her throat. “You can’t be serious? That’s a reckless idea.”
She hated herself for saying that the moment she opened her mouth, seeing the flicker of hurt that crumpled his features momentarily, before he straightened, clearing his throat. “Yeah, was only joking,” he said quietly, “it’s a stupid idea.”
Her mind raced as she laid in bed that night. She couldn’t shake the guilt at laughing at him when he suggested they run away together. The more she thought about it, the less silly it seemed. They were both unhappy, trapped in lives that neither of them wanted or had asked for, and truthfully, Abraham coming to Grantchester had been the happiest she’d been since her mum was alive. Surely it couldn’t hurt to explore what their lives might be like if they threw caution to the wind and allowed themselves to pursue what their hearts desired? She would be out from beneath her father’s thumb, and Abraham would be rid of an obligation to a woman he didn’t love.
By the time their next meeting at the library came a few days later, her mind was made up. She returned her copy of Anne of Green Gables, not bothering to borrow a new book, too filled with breathless excitement as she rounded the corner of the building to meet her secret friend.
“How would it work?” she blurted, coming to stand before him as he leaned against the red brick building.
“How would what work?” he asked, eyeing her curiously as he pushed away from the wall.
“Us,” she replied, as they began to walk in the direction of the woods, “if we ran away together.”
“Seriously?” he asked, glancing sideways at her. “I thought you said it was a stupid idea.”
“I didn’t say it was stupid,” she sighed exasperatedly, as he helped her over the turnstile into the patch of woodland that had become their rendezvous spot. “I said it was reckless, and it is, but the more I think about it, the more I want to.”
She gasped as he crowded into her space, walking her back through the scattered twigs and leaves of the woodland floor, until her back made impact with the solid trunk of a tree.
“D’you mean it?” he questioned, grasping her chin, his eyes searching hers for any trace of insincerity.
She nodded, feeling as though she had forgotten how to breathe as a grin spread across his face, lighting up his sharp features with pure elation.
He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, making her whine as he pulled away all too soon, just as she’d begun to kiss back.
“I’ll sell the horses,” he told her, before pecking his lips softly against each of her cheeks. “We’ll use the money to buy a little house somewhere. You can get a job at a veterinary office, just as a receptionist until you get more experience. I can get more horses, and earn my living training and selling them on. You could help me look after them, since you’ll be a vet. We could have chickens, and maybe a goat.”
Each statement was punctuated by a kiss, each promise delivered with a press of his lips to her cheeks, her nose, her eyes. It made her stomach flip as the idea of them running away together, building a future together, became more tangible.
“I want that more than anything,” she whispered, her hands balling into fists in the white cotton of his shirt.
“Then that’s what you’ll have,” he promised, nipping at her bottom lip.
This time, when his hand disappeared beneath her skirt, she didn’t stop him. Every nerve ending in her body cried out for his touch, and she clung to him, held up only by the front of his shirt, and the rough tree bark at her back.
“We’ll get married,” he murmured, as his fingertips danced along the inside of her thigh, the calloused skin a hardened juxtaposition to the softness of her own. “And we’ll have babies.”
She moaned, the sound foreign to her ears as he toyed with her knicker elastic, before dipping his fingers inside. She had never been touched like this before, and she pressed her face into the crook of his neck, her thighs trembling with the effort to keep her on her feet as Abraham swiped slowly through the wetness that had gathered between her legs. She focused on his voice, and all of the pretty promises he made, afraid that if she dwelled upon the physical sensation for too long then she would bolt like the frightened cat he claimed she was.
“I’ll make you feel like this every day, Tom Cat,” he uttered, his fingers swirling over her sensitive bud, causing her to keen and her hips to buck. “Because I’ll be yours and you’ll be mine.”
As his fingers dipped back towards her entrance, gathering more of her arousal to help aid in the circles he pressed against her, she mewled, the coil tightening in her belly, pushing her dangerously close to a sensation she had only ever experienced at her own touch.
“Would you like that?” he asked, speeding up his movements.
She nodded, her mind too foggy with the impending onslaught of sensation to form a proper answer, but that simply wasn’t enough for Abraham.
“Say it,” he insisted.
“Y–yours,” she keened, before white hot oblivion overtook her. Her body shuddered against the tree as she yelped in surprise, clinging tightly to him as she convulsed against his touch, a pleasant ache bursting forth and making her feel hot all over.
He worked her through it, only stilling his fingers when her hips began to move away from his touch instead of chasing it. “Mine,” he murmured back with a smile.
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